


Get on Your Knees and Pray

by Whreflections



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Extremely Dubious Consent, I didn't even know that was a tag wow, M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can make Dean drop the blade anytime; he knows that.  But for all that, he can't yet make him put it down for good.  Until he can, he has to chose the moments he calls Dean down wisely.  </p><p>As much as he wants to change his mind, he knows this can't be one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get on Your Knees and Pray

**Author's Note:**

> Notes at the end about why the dubious consent is dubious, so as not to spoil for those ok with it here, but I wanted to leave an option to check out more info in case someone wasn't sure if this was a thing they wanted to read.

For Sam, it’s a matter of faith.  He might have grown up saying prayers, but even before he learned that God had left the building, it was never in any deity that he placed most of his faith, not the unshakable kind, not his most desperate prayers.  Ever since he could remember, the real heights of faith, desperation to exhilaration, all of it had hinged on Dean. 

It’d be worth questioning, maybe, what it meant that though he’d never quite classified it that way, most of the prayers in his life had been to a man, as seemingly powerless as any other. 

And still, for all that humanity, it’s only Dean that’s never _really_ let him down.  Because there are failures and there are _failures_ and even if his brother lied to save him in that church, even if he _did_ give up on Sam here and there, even if he did fuck Benny, well, it’s not like Sam didn’t set up those situations first.  When it’s mattered, when Dean’s had a choice, he’s always been there.  It wasn’t his fault he got trapped in purgatory, or that out of the two of them back in 09 Cas was the one not choking down demon blood.  So much between them, and almost all of it Sam can trace back to himself.  It’s almost funny, really, when he stops to think that about half those times, he was trying to protect his brother. 

Hell, and the apocalypse, and after, and here, on his knees in a pool of blood with Dean’s sticky fingers tangled in his hair. 

See, there’s faith, and then there’s faith like this- the faith that comes because he knows he could call Dean from this, easy.  He could pull his mouth off Dean’s cock and say his name, and maybe he wouldn’t snap to that first second but Sam could repeat it, and his brother would look at him, and he’d drop the blade.  He’d let go of both of them.  Sam could do that; his certainty is absolute. 

There’s a part of him that wants to, a part that hates the burn of Dean’s cock against the back of his throat, the sharp tug of fingers in his hair.  It isn’t the rough hands he hates; they’ve both thrown each other around a little over the years and it doesn’t matter, it evens out, sometimes it’s good, sometimes better.  No, it’s the way Dean’s looking at him, or rather, not looking at all.  His eyes are on his prize, the angel he took apart for Castiel before Sam could make it in the room.  Cas hasn’t seen this, not yet, but Sam’s pretty sure that even his stomach might turn because what Sam saw of hell when he went for Bobby was only a squint at a fractured mirror but this room, it’d look at home there. 

There are places on the body’s arms that Sam could see bone, see the curl and contortion of severed muscle.  He looked away; Dean, he wants to keep looking. 

Take about ten years off, and he’d have never believed he’d be feeling like no more to Dean than the first warm body he turned to find.  Hell, take a few months off, his answer’d be the same.  It hurt in unexpected ways, sharp tugs he hadn’t anticipated when he went to his knees, Dean’s hand wet against the back of his neck.

He could wake Dean up in a second, if he wanted.  It wouldn’t even be hard, but it would be selfish.  He may not be able to do much, but he won’t wake Dean to this.  Let him remember it after, when Sam has time to settle the burn and look at him without the proof of its sting in his eyes.  If he has to remember, let him remember later that this happened for the first time in months and it was alright, a first step, maybe.  Let him remember anything, anything but Sam stopping him, because between the two of them, the ground is too unsteady for that. 

In a roundabout way, it _is_ alright.  It’s his choice, after all.  He knows what he’s doing. 

(And in the end, in the end he’ll tell Dean everything, because one of these nights he’ll listen when Sam asks to lock the blade away, and they’ll figure this out, and it'll take a while but eventually they’ll end up lying in Sam’s bed watching baseball and he’ll tell him, soft and quiet against the warmth of Dean’s neck _don’t ever look at me like I’m the guy you picked up at the bar.  Don’t do that.  Not to me.  You need to take something out on someone, you ask me and I can promise you I’ll be what you need, but it has to be us.  You can give me that._  

Someday, when this is all over.  It’ll all be over.)

Dean comes sharp and sudden, no warning but a barely perceptible catch in his slightly rapid breath and Sam swallows, as efficiently as he can before he sits back on his heels.  The first blade rests against Dean’s thigh, still wet enough on the bone that it hasn’t begun to dry.  Tentatively, so slow he tries to calm the panting of his breath, Sam closes his fingers over Dean’s on the hilt. 

“Hey, Dean?  Are we done here?”

Dean twitches, not quite a jerk away, but enough to make Sam wince.

“I have to finish with him.”

If Sam could catch his breath, this whole thing’d be a hell of a lot easier.  If he’s gonna do that, he has to stop stealing looks up at his brother.

He never saw Dean in hell, never saw him torture Alistair.

All he knows is that this face, this set to his eyes, it’s unfamiliar.  Nothing of Dean is unfamiliar, not to him. 

The tears that prick at the corners of his eyes are unwelcome, unproductive.  He takes three deep breathes, flexes his fingers ever so gently over his brother’s. 

“Dean, it’s done.  He’s given us everything he can.  We need to go to Cas now.  You need to tell him what you found.  I’m sure it’ll help.” 

“What?”

“The information, Dean.  Whatever he told you.  We need to go to Cas.”  It works best, sometimes, to get through with fact.  Simple tasks. 

Dean’s grip loosens on the blade, just a touch.  “Right.  Yeah, I know.”

“Ok.  So can I have this?”  It’s not the right time to ask, it’s not and he _knows_ it, but the question slips out anyway, all hope.  A prayer, maybe. 

If it wasn’t so crushing, he’d have more appreciation for the fluid way Dean moves out of his grip, lithe as the flicker of fire.  “I’ve got it, Sam.”

It was an unlikely prayer, anyway.  The timing isn’t right; he’ll know it when it is. 

Sam gets to his feet slowly, brushes his palms against the thighs of his jeans.  His brother, he’d ask to return the favor, push Sam up against the wall and kiss him incoherent while he palmed the front of his jeans.  His brother, though, wouldn’t leave bloody handprints quite as extensive as the one he can feel drying against the back of his neck.  He’d have kissed Sam the minute he pulled him to his feet, made the softest low sounds into his mouth that Sam swore he could feel seep beneath his skin.  For his brother, Sam would have already been hard, been waiting for the steady grip of Dean’s hand around his cock. 

This man he has before him, it’s the mark of Cain wearing his brother’s skin and really, he should probably be more terrified. 

All he wonders is how much Dean sees, how much he knows, how aware he is of the thing that’s twisting him up in knots. 

There are moments that year before the apocalypse _he_ doesn’t remember; that much, Sam knows.  But blood and the mark, they’re two separate things.  He wishes sometimes that they weren’t because then, he could properly understand.  Then, he might know what to do. 

Because he has no answers yet, he follows Dean into the hallway.  In a building full of angels, there’s only a single prayer in his mind.

_You can’t leave me.  Not after all this.  You promised.  You can’t leave me._

**Author's Note:**

> Sam gives moc!Dean a blowjob, while he's still got the blade in his hand and is all bloody and very much out of it. The sex itself is super vague, cause that isn't the point of this one; this is all Sam interiority. But, because of that, it becomes clear that Sam is not happy with what's happening. It's not that Dean's too rough but there's no connection in this; he could be any guy that walked in the door and gave Dean his mouth, and that fucking hurts. So he's not ok with it, not really, but he makes the decision not to call Dean out of it and make him drop the blade even though he's sure he could, because he doesn't want Dean to look at him and see that he's upset. 
> 
> Sam's logic is not sound, and he's not making a good choice for either of them but hey, he's a Winchester; I cannot make him choose wisely and believe me I've tried...this fic has been in my head since last Tuesday and I kept trying to alter this scene and it always came back to this. So. Sam making poor decisions and very dubious consent and Dean doing something he's very much going to regret. There. That covers it I think.


End file.
